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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994634">We're not scaremongering (this is really happening)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrywizard/pseuds/blueberrywizard'>blueberrywizard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Everything In Its Right Place [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(both of those are implied), (keep that in mind when you reach the end), Angst, Bisexual Peter Parker, Canon - Comics, Emotional Hurt, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, I Don't Even Know I Was Experimenting, Jewish Peter Parker, Loneliness, Nightmares (but not in a direct way), Not Beta Read, Post-Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), Self-Hatred, Spider God is a dick, Touch-Starved, noir needs a hug, you'll see - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:55:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrywizard/pseuds/blueberrywizard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was a cold night, so he brought his coat closer to his body. He went through the window to get out of this place, a frantic, wild attempt to outrun his nightmares, his demons. They never leave him alone for long."</p><p>Peter is trying to keep everyone safe. Even if it's hurting him in the process.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(past) Felicia Hardy/Peter Benjamin Parker, Peter Benjamin Parker &amp; Everyone, Peter Benjamin Parker/Robbie Robertson (implied)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Everything In Its Right Place [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970170</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>We're not scaremongering (this is really happening)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! It's been a while, but I miss Noir, so I tried writing something again. I don't know how to feel about this, because I hadn't got any expectations when I started; I was writing down some random thoughts during my lectures today and suddenly I had a decent amounts of words to publish it? It was <i> fast </i> and I didn't proofread, so it is what it is. Also English is not my first language, so it might be a bit clumsy.</p><p>You can read it without reading previous fic, but it helps when it comes to establishing a timeline.</p><p>Also this work is somewhat inspired by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/17282084/chapters/40644575">Burning Matches, written by HopelesslyLost</a> – I absolutely adore this fic, and because of that I'm unable to separate my headcanons from things I've read. Anyway, if you want more angst, go read it!</p><p>Title from Idioteque by Radiohead.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a cold night, so he brought his coat closer to his body. He went through the window to get out of this place, a frantic, wild attempt to outrun his nightmares, his demons. They never leave him alone for long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Taste of blood filling his mouth wasn't anything new, though it was a nice change of pace that it wasn't caused by someone's fist. He had a lot of bad habits, but biting the inside of his cheeks and lips was probably the most irritating one. Still, it was hard to get rid of, so this was a reason why he was sitting on the rooftop with a taste of salt and copper on his tongue. He could hear sirens; noise of the city in the background was familiar and strangely calming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flexed his fingers, his worn, leather gloves gave soft creak, barely hearable among other noises. Oh, how he wished for a cigarette. He never told any of his fellow Spiders (or their parents, he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> Rio’s disappointing glare, and it was making him a bit guilty) that he’s a smoker, and none of them seemed to catch this particular habit of his, but he had matches for a reason, right? It didn’t mean he could always afford cigarettes, so he hadn’t been smoking frequently. Nevertheless, he craved one now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had a tough day (all of them were tough lately). He couldn’t remember the last time he slept longer than two hours straight, and probably it was even longer since he ate something hot and filling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a Great Depression, after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He missed his Spiders, his friends, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>family.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But he couldn’t meet them, not now. He didn’t deserve it, didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>earn</span>
  </em>
  <span> it yet. He knew he hadn’t earn it, that’s why he hadn’t been meeting them lately, only receiving their messages, replying with shorty “busy, sorry”, and adding one of those small picture faces (Gwen and Miles were so fond of them; PB said he’s too old for using them, but then he did anyway; Porker just did as he pleased), one that’s sad, because he needed them to understand that wasn’t their fault, only </span>
  <em>
    <span>his.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> tired. There was so much crime, so much pain, and it seemed like he wasn’t doing anything to lessen it, because he knew already that dreams of stopping it completely were nothing more than naive wishes of a foolish man. It would be a miracle, and he knew that in his universe miracles </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment, a brief one that felt like a dream, he thought that Felicia was a miracle, especially when he became the Spider, and had to leave his life behind. At the end, he had to leave her behind too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One thing that his Spiders couldn’t truly comprehend was this one, simple fact: in his universe it is unbelievably hard to find anything that would give one’s life a meaning. Take his, for one, very bitter, example: everything he had held dear to him, laid six feet under, in a grave. His family (minus Aunt May) was dead, his friends were either lobotomised or they moved along with their lives, because he was as good as dead to them. Quite literally.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He never told this to anyone, but he had seen his grave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had seen a place in which he will never rest, because when he will finally die, they will probably use his body as a science experiment, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> will never know. They won’t bury him in the proper way, nobody will mourn him in the proper way, nobody will leave a stone on his grave. He’ll be just another nameless body in a mass grave. A fitting end for someone, </span>
  <em>
    <span>something,</span>
  </em>
  <span> like him. Meanwhile, in empty grave, under Peter Benjamin Parker’s name, in a place where Aunt May might still cry sometimes (but he doubted that, she was a strong woman, and she let herself to grieve when no one could see her), lie his dreams of becoming a scientist, dreams of family, dreams of love. Dreams that were never stained by the curse of power.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he knew it, he saw this – he wasn’t sure if it was just a nightmare or maybe a vision send by Spider God to torture his soul, just for its amusement – he saw his body laying on a cold pavement, torn and bleeding, eyes open, unfocused, unseeing. He saw everything that would come after finding his dead body, and finally the moment of throwing whatever had remained, covered in a dirty sheet, to a hole where other bodies had already lied. In a sharp moment of clarity, the one that comes directly after being hurt, he had known that this will be his future.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He once thought that maybe Felicia could be his future. He wasn’t stupid, he had been perfectly aware that Felicia wouldn’t settle down with him, she was strong and stubborn, powerful like a storm. Never meant to be a possession, a prize. She was her own woman and he respected that, but deep down, he had been hoping that maybe, just maybe, she could be a safe haven for him. When the shitshow with Spider God cursing him had happened, and when he had killed Vulture in cold blood, which meant slamming the door behind any remains of his old life, he thought that she’ll be the only connection to Peter Benjamin Parker that was left. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then Robbie… his poor Robbie. They fooled around once or twice, mainly because they were young, kind of drunk (don’t tell PB about underage drinking) and a bit desperate for attention. He loved him, because it was impossible not to love him. He was his best friend, they had each other, through thick and thin, – he helped him after Uncle Ben’s death and that’s how he repaid him: by not saving him. He failed him like he was failing everyone else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, all that was left was him, being alone, starved for attention, for touch, for anything that would make him feel like a human being again. He had a list, actually. Touches that were friendly and those that weren’t. Stuff like that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is how it goes:</span>
</p>
<ul>
<li>
<span>last touch: </span><b>today</b><span> (or it was yesterday maybe? he didn’t know anymore) – punch in the face – through the mask</span>
</li>
<li>
<span>last touch that wasn’t meant to hurt him: </span><b>forty-three days ago</b><span> (or forty-four? depends if today’s today and not yesterday) – Miles nudged him to move a bit on a couch, elbow to elbow – through two layers (sweater and coat)</span>
</li>
<li>
<span>last touch that meant something: </span><b>seventy-five days ago</b><span> (he was pretty sure of it, it </span><em><span>was</span></em><span> seventy-five, that one was important) – Peni hugged him to say goodbye when they had seen each other for the last time – through four layers (undershirt, sweater, vest and coat)</span>
</li>
<li>
<span>last touch skin-to-skin: </span><b>two hundred and ninety-one days ago</b><span> – PB helped him sew the cut on his shoulder (he remembered how warm his fingers were, so different from his own, always cold hands, and how steady they were, how sure and careful; he couldn’t remember when was the last time someone was </span><em><span>careful</span></em><span> around him)</span>
</li>
<li>
<span>last touch that meant something more: </span><b>seven hundred and thirty-eight days </b><span>– last time he was truly welcomed at Felicia’s place</span>
</li>
</ul><p> </p><p>
  <span>He missed his Spiders so much. He wanted to see them, to hold them, he needed them, badly. But no matter how much he wanted it, he couldn’t have it, he couldn’t touch them, he couldn’t risk staining them with his darkness, with his curse. He couldn’t, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he couldn’t, </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>he couldn’t. He had to stay away, to keep them safe keep them safe safe safe.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, monsters aren’t sleeping under your bed. They sleep </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> your bed, instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eyes of Spider God ripped into his soul, tore him apart, the curse of power became a real curse. Made him a monster. Made it dance, made it jump. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Made it do as we please. Made it run, made it kill. Made it drink their blood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Made it see their eyes. Browns and blues. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kill them. </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>Kill them.</em>
  </b>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He woke up, desperately gasping for air. He shivered in fear, and also because of the wind that he could feel through the open window. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a cold night, so he brought his coat closer to his body. He went through the window to get out of this place, a frantic, wild attempt to outrun his nightmares, his demons. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They never leave him alone for long.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
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